


Beginning and End

by SerpentsKiss



Category: A/B/O - Fandom, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Dubious Consent, M/M, Unconscious Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentsKiss/pseuds/SerpentsKiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier wasn't programmed to remember that he was an alpha, and designed to satisfy the needs of another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginning and End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silverfoxflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxflower/gifts).



> This was inspired by a jaw-dropping and panty-ruining post by silverfoxflower on her tumblr about A!Bucky and pre-serum O!Steve that makes me want to weep inside.

He knew he should have left the enigmatic, stubborn blond man to lie where he fell. He knew it, he knew it to his core, and yet he'd dragged him back here to the secret laboratory where they'd made his own life a living hell and trusted that Hydra had never recorded the location of it in SHIELD's database. For a bet, he figured, it was pretty close to safe. The Winter Soldier already itched at the uncertainty of it, and he tried to placate that part of his brain with the likelihood that no one but them was left who knew.

Some part of him, confused and hurting, knew that the blond man would be alright. It was the same part that had brought him here, that wanted to sit beside him and hold his hands and stroke his forehead. He didn't let that part of him – Bucky? Who is Bucky? – gain control any more than he let the Winter Soldier. He just sat, and watched, and occasionally fetched water from the tiny, barren bathroom when the man moaned or turned his head.

It took almost a full day for him to notice. There was – something in the air, something that stirred him, that made that voice tugging at the back of his mind tug harder, that identity that seemed so much more solid than the rest. It called out and screamed and beat itself against the dominant, easily molded personality that was so patiently watching. Steve, it said, over and over. Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve – the mantra began to run together, and a headache began. He got more water, and this time sipped it himself.

The smell didn't fade. It got stronger, frustratingly so. Sitting wasn't working anymore. The air was too heavy, too stifling, and he couldn't be still. He got up and paced instead, back and forth next to the table where he'd lain the blond man. Being close to him made it worse, somehow, but that insistent crying voice in his mind wouldn't let him move away. He began to circle the table, his eyes drawn more and more often to those lean features, the damaged uniform. Something in him was rattling against the bars it was held against, offering explanation, demanding satisfaction. He could hardly stand it.

Night was coming. He could barely breathe now. He kept finding himself leaning over the man, inhaling deeply, eyes fixed on his throat or his lips or his groin. Then he'd be across the room, gripping the back of the chair. Nothing in between, he was losing time, but that was nothing new. That had happened so often that he remembered the not remembering and took it in stride. That didn't panic him, no; the scent did. He was almost crying with it, eyes watering at the suffocation, the overwhelming noise it caused in his brain. It was causing other things, too, feelings in the pit of his stomach and between his legs. Things he knew, distantly, that he wasn't programmed for. But then, he was programmed to be Winter Soldier, and he was beyond that, too. It was as though he was stuck blank, and he wished he weren't, because if he had some vague personality maybe something could distract him from – from this.

Morning. Some part of him knew, knew, knew that the man should have healed by now. He did that. His body did that. It fixed itself impossibly fast because it had been changed to do that. Change from what? He couldn't remember, and it mattered, it would explain everything, he knew. Why, when he looked down, did he see that perfect face? Was he hallucinating now?

No. No, it was because he was over him on the table, hands on the blue-clad shoulders, knees on either side of his thighs, staring down at the sweat broken out on the man's face and the way his lips were parted with panting and the way he just wasn't recovering. That was wrong. What could he do? Climb off him, first – cool him. Cold, he needed to stop him sweating – lower the fever, Buck, don't let him burn up – that was why, why his hands were yanking and pulling at that bizarre uniform, unbuckling buckles and seeking hidden zippers and –

Now he was too hot. Suffocating in the heat as well as the smell and shaking with all of it, overwhelming and painful and torturous and he had to do something. He stripped himself as well, blue and bright colors and a mess of filthy dark clothes piling on the floor. He didn't know how long he stood there before the man who shouldn't be broken anymore began to squirm on the table, making pathetic little moaning noises. His eyes were fixed for too long, too long on the white scars that marked his body – bullet wounds, the Soldier shot him, I shot him – and he almost missed catching him as the writhing man began to roll off the table.

Something in him snapped when their bare, heated skin touched. He caught him, yes, but only to put him on the floor and push him down, facedown, while Bucky – Who is Bucky? – fumbled with his legs, spreading him so he could kneel between them and – what's happening I don't do this I'm not programmed – lick at the hole exposed by his hands pushing that beautiful – beautiful? – ass open wide for him. Instinct, someone else's instinct, told him what to do, told him to circle that tight, puckered portal to heaven – he was sure something good was there, and heaven was the only good thing left in the world – with his tongue and then force it inside, move it like he would his fingers – when have I ever put my fingers in anyone's – until the man underneath him moaned and cried out and creamy white wetness was suddenly covering the floor – come on, Steve, come for me, that's it, just like that, you'll feel better when you do, I've got you, I've got you through this, only two more days – and he could fit himself between those perfect thighs and thrust his cock home.

Home, yes, it felt like home, and his two hands gripped Steve's – his name, yes, that's his name – shoulders as though in a vise and slammed him to the floor to stop his squirming and arching. It was hot, tight, impossibly wet from saliva and the slick precome he'd hardly noticed dripping from his swollen cock, too distracted before by burying his tongue as deep in Steve's ass as it could go. The writhing, feverish man beneath him felt perfect, as though he'd been made to take nothing but Bucky's cock – is that who I am – and yet somehow something was missing. Something Bucky was determined to find as he thrust, bearing down into Steve with no thought for his cries or his squirming or fevered begging. This explained it, he knew, some part of him knew – the heat, he's in heat, he should be suppressed, why, so should I – and he knew now. The drugs they would have given him for the condition he'd forgotten – condition? Being an alpha isn't a condition – had been lost with the fall of Hydra. But Steve, why wasn't Steve – ?

It didn't matter. It didn't matter because he could remember not knowing, now, about the alpha and omega, about the needs, because the Winter Soldier hadn't needed to know and his chemistry had been changed so it didn't matter. It was all there now, though, suppressants far too long out of his system and his omega, his omega, laid out beneath him like a present for Bucky to take and own and breed like his sweet, strong, perfect body was meant to be bred.

Buck, Buck, Buck – the noise wasn't coming from the confusing voices in his head, anymore, but from the man pinned beneath him. He was trying to move beneath Bucky, to press his hips up, to take the cock that filled him even deeper. He was squirming, shaking, crying with little breathless whining sounds at the exhalation of every breath – or maybe that was Bucky, barely able to breathe as he drove deep and felt the knot beginning to bulge outward at the base of his cock. Nonono – some part of him panicked – but yes – and he was calling Steve's name as it joined them, locking him deep into his omega's shaking, eager body.

When he came to himself he was lying full atop Steve. He didn't remember collapsing on him, didn't remember the end of the orgasm that seemed as though it would never end. He certainly didn't remember pinning Steve's hand with his metal one and lacing their fingers together like lovers... Because he hadn't. As he raised his head, he saw Steve was craning his neck back to get a look at him. His eyes were still glassy, bright with feverish need, but a small smile was on his lips and he squeezed Bucky's hand.

I knew it, he said, and Bucky somehow knew that this was true. I knew you'd remember.

He did. This, at least. This, and the suffering of having his omega, his sweet, tender Steve in his arms every heat and the excruciating inability to satisfy him like he knew the sickly man needed. He knew the space that had grown between them when Steve had had the serum, the suppressants offered by the military, both together rendering Bucky redundant on one hand and unnecessary on the other. He remembered the looks exchanged in heated moments, the fervent wish for a moment alone that somehow never came even in the time that followed, in the press of events and war and –

Bucky... his attention was called back to Steve, naked and sweating and desperate beneath him. Bucky, please. Again, he meant, looking back at Bucky with that agonized and hungry expression. He needed Bucky to wrap his hand around him and finish him off and maybe finish them both again after that.

That Bucky could do. Even if he didn't remember anything else, didn't know anything else, he knew this. His Steve, his omega, his to satisfy and care for and breed and fuck and unmake only so that they could make each other anew. Even if everything else was gone, they could come anew with this.

Buck – the voice was more plaintive now. Buck, can you hear me?

He did. His hand slid under where Steve's leg propped him open, grasped his cock that was so hard again but slicked with his so-recent spend, and began to bring him slowly and tenderly to another finish, building another step toward their future. Even if this was all he could give Steve from their past, he knew, deep and instinctual, that Steve could accept it, and could teach Bucky to accept it, himself.

Down, deep and instinctual, he knew that whatever had been missing, the bond he so desperately needed, was no longer lacking. This was good, this was perfect, and if all he remembered of the two of them was this... that was just fine.


End file.
